Havens in the Dark
by BuBuWinter
Summary: (One-shot.) It's been weeks since Malistaire Drake fled from Ravenwood, driven mad by the loss of his beloved wife. Cyrus, now abandoned and suffering in lonesome grief, struggles with controlling his emotions in an attempt to keep his darkest secret hidden from prying eyes. Meanwhile, Lord Shadow questions the Conjurers loyalty, and goes out in search for some much needed answers.


_**AN: A one-shot that's linked to my story "The Lightning Gaze". However, even if you haven't read LG, this story will still make sense. Just know that Cyrus has an adopted daughter whose pet dragon, Lord Shadow, will play a major part in this. This one-shot in particular is very AU as it's introducing a lot of my own personal ideas, including one about Cyrus I feel you won't fully agree with. Oh well.**_

_**Terms to Know: Mutt-dragon - offspring of two different species of dragon, often used as an insult**_

_**Blood-magic - the natural magical energy surging through the veins of a Mage often used to determine what school they are, but not always**_

_**Non-(insert magic type) - a wizard who's a master in a magic that's not their blood school**_

_**Now that that nonsense is over with, do enjoy!**_

Dark times were coming. Cyrus knew this, but he didn't want to believe it.

There had been speculation about an upcoming war before, but now it was almost certain. Malistaire Drake, former Necromancy teacher at the esteemed Ravenwood School for the Magical Arts, had vanished just a few short weeks ago without any explanation, tearing his school away from Ravenwood in a fit of anger and, to some who knew Malistaire best, despair. Cyrus and the other professors spent many days contemplating on the reasoning behind this. Malistaire was a good teacher, and despite his cold exterior he was a good man with a strong heart, so just about everyone - especially the poor Necromancer students he left behind - was baffled by his sudden change in demeanor. Everyone was asking just what happened to the poor man.

Many theories and possibilities were thrown about when Ambrose held a meeting to answer this question. Falmea thought that perhaps a few misbehaving students had crossed the line, and in his depressed and emotional state he simply lost his nerve. That theory was quickly shoved aside by Ambrose though, claiming that Malistaire had always been a disciplined and strict teacher; if any students even dared to upset him, they were quickly dealt with. Diego - who despite his obvious good-will and strength was always a bit stereotypical - claimed that the darkness of Necromatic magic had claimed his good heart and turned him to something evil. Lydia Greyrose simply bopped him on the head with her wand and told him there was no such thing as evil magic, just evil wizards, and everyone in the room agreed that Malistaire was most certainly _not_ an evil man.

Cyrus knew, however, that his brother was left a hollow shell of a man after Sylvia had passed on, his heart shattered and his mind in shambles. As an odd metaphor of Ambrose's put it, Sylvia was the rich soil and warming sunlight needed to make Malistaire grow into a strong, towering tree. When the sun went dim and the soil lost its nutrients, the tree didn't just wither away; it had been completely uprooted and torn from the ground in a tornado of madness and despair.

The arguments went on for hours, everyone trying to decide just what exactly happened to the former Necromancy professor. Cyrus was the one who put an end to it, bursting out that arguing was pointless, that the old Malistaire was gone and the new one had to be stopped. In secret he really just didn't want to think of the possibilities of his brother's sudden change, and he missed his twin dearly. The professors then decided to move onto the topic of stopping Malistaire, which didn't help Cyrus's secret distress though he still allowed the conversation to proceed. War had not been waged for a thousand years, and the Conjuration professor wasn't about to become the cause of one by putting a stop to such an important meeting.

Each professor named their own best students. From Falmea's Fire school the one chosen was Alura Nightspear, a powerful duelist by many of the peoples standards and - as Diego put it - the most promising arena combatant in the entire school. As capable as she was, however, Ambrose disagreed, stating that the young wizard cared too little for the well-being of the Spiral to have the drive to stop her former secondary professor. From Lydia's Ice school the one chosen was Sapphire Dragon, the Dragonspyrian who had more passion for fire than ice, more passion for justice than vengeance. She was a noble and kind-hearted soul, but also strict and menacing when need be. She too was shot down, this time by young Moolinda Wu, the newest teacher. She said that Sapphire was one of the most likely to leave the school if given the chance, so she wasn't reliable if her journey lead her to Dragonspyre, where she planned to rebuild the broken planet once she was strong enough. Other names were said, all were disapproved for one reason or another. When no one could decide, Ambrose examined each teacher, pausing only when he laid eyes on Cyrus.

"Do you have an idea on who the best Necromancy students are?" That question, Cyrus later decided, would haunt him for a long while.

"Yes," he murmured slowly, causing the other professors to glance oddly at the usually proud Conjurer. Ambrose raised an eyebrow inquiringly, persisting him to continue and strangely oblivious to his discomfort. _He still has some of his old traits_, Cyrus thought as he forced himself to look at the thousand year old man. Ambrose, no matter how grandfatherly and gentle he was, would always be a crotchety old man deep down. Cyrus took a deep breath, two names spilling from his lips.

"Alexandra Firesong and Heat Shadowsword."

There was dead silence in the room. Everyone who recognized the names knew that the two girls were more or less members of the Drake family. Heather - nicknamed Heat - was adopted by Cyrus a little over eight years ago after his brother persisted she be taken care of. She was rescued one night during a terrible storm by Malistaire and Ambrose, a storm that would later be named after her. The Lightning Gaze was dismissed as a legend so it wouldn't scare the Spiral's inhabitants, but anyone who knew young Heat - the legendary girl with the luminous green eyes - or had been to Avalon for any extended time knew that the world was ravaged by terrible storms more often than not. The Lightning Gaze was very, very real. Cyrus, despite her discipline and obvious good-manners, wasn't very keen on the idea of raising the child. He hated children, and it was only recently he truly began to think of her as a daughter. She was quite possibly the most adept Necromancy user in all of Ravenwood, modest and cunning in everything she did, so she was a good candidate. Malistaire had told his brother to protect her though, and Cyrus silently prayed to the Titans that she wasn't chosen. Not only was she his daughter, but she simply wouldn't have the guts to kill the man who saved her life.

Alexandra Firesong was another story entirely. She was a few years older than Heather, adopted by Malistaire and Sylvia after running away from a very destroyed Dragonspyre. She cared deeply for the pair, and unlike Heat - who continued calling Cyrus 'Cyrus' - she referred to them as her real parents. When Sylvia died, she was devastated. When Malistaire went berserk, she was destroyed. She showed little emotion anymore, and while she was far from Cyrus's favorite, he felt sorry for her. She was orphaned and abandoned once, and now history seemed to be repeating itself. It was no wonder she was so stoic and cruel. Family set aside, she was as gifted a Necromancer as Heat and better than her at sword fighting. She probably was capable of completing the mission, more so than Cyrus's own daughter, but he still didn't want her to go. She was his niece, she was his twins daughter, she was family, and no matter how much she disliked him or he disliked her, a part of him knew he would always be there if she needed him.

Despite the obvious answer, which should have been 'no, their family is torn up as it is', there was much debate on which of the two would go. When one would argue that Heat had more magical strength and endurance, another would claim her too gutless to go on such a journey. When one would argue that Alex was the most well-rounded and by all means the most powerful of the two, another would argue that she was too emotionally unstable. It was like a tug of war, one where no one would win and the rope would ultimately snap under the pressure, most likely when time ran out. After many hours of arguing and proving points, the black curtain of night finally drew a close to the day, and Ambrose put an end to the meeting, stating the matter may be resolved by the hand of fate. Everyone went home with curt goodbyes, or without saying anything at all.

What Ambrose didn't count on was that the hand of fate had decided to run its long, broken nails across the surface of the world that night, and - both metaphorically and physically - it drew Cyrus's own crimson blood.

It started when the gifted Conjurer found himself unable to fall asleep, riddled by thoughts of his daughter, his niece, and above all his brother, who had fully deserted him. He decided his best bet to get over the fears and distress that rattled his mind was to read. Books had always been an outlet to him, taking him to far off fantastical worlds he could only dream of conjuring up, or sending him back in history to times where war was a common sight in the Spiral. Strangely, though decidedly not surprisingly, reading wasn't breaking him from his now shattered reality. If either Heat or Alex went on this mission - whether they failed or succeeded - would he ever forgive himself? Would the emotional drama of it all completely break his daughter, who he now held so precious to him? Would Alex continue to be the hollow shell of a wizard who was once considered so great and revered? _Would he feel Malistaire's own broken-hearted pain?_

His thoughts vanished only when the echo of footsteps intruded them, and flinching - which caused Cyrus a bit of surprise as he never flinches - he turned to see his daughter come down the steps, as light footed and elegant as always. There was something off about her though. Her satin blonde hair - normally so well-kept it was compared to a river of light - was askew and indecent, her fair skin was much paler than usual and her eyes seemed drained of all the life, showing none of the incredible luminescence they normally had. Heat glanced over at Cyrus for a split second, eyes flashing with some incomprehensible thought, before she turned away from him and grabbed her sword, which had been laying on the table.

"Can't sleep," she uttered faintly before taking a swift leave. He stared at the open door as she fled, wondering whether or not to run after her before giving a decisive shake of the head. It wasn't a surprise to him she couldn't sleep. Nightmares of the storm, which had haunted her ever since she was a little girl, and the recent events that had unfolded were bound to make the poor girl very restless. He glanced back down at the book, shut it, and stood slowly from his seat. He made his way noiselessly towards the door before gently grabbing the knob and closing it, a faint creaking sound breaking the still silence. As he removed his hand he spotted flickers of pitch black and white light drip off the doorknob like some type of liquid silver, the thin drops diminishing mid-fall and the thick ones creating an unsightly pool of shadowed substance on the redwood floor. He stared at it, stunned and stupefied, before he realized just what that substance was.

Magicka very rarely ever spilled out of the body, only when there was an open wound, or when someone was in extreme anguish. Was it because of Heat? Was she in even more distress than he thought? His heart began to race, and as he moved to open the door once again and run out in search of his daughter, he glanced down at his own hands. The same black substance seemed to pulse from the lines on his palms like blood. He stared at it in shock, then slowly - ever so slowly - his fingertips curled into the center of his hand, the sharp, unclipped nails digging deep into his flesh. Gradually, blood began to rise from the puncture marks, mixing and spilling with the black magicka.

Heat wasn't the one in distress, he was.

As the realization dawned on him, his fingers dug deeper and deeper into his hand, sending ripples of pain through the entire length of his arm. He turned around suddenly and took a running start up the stairs, feeling sweat began to trail down his neck and face. _You're not a Necromancer, Cyrus_, he told himself as he made his way to his room. _You're not._

He shut his bedroom door behind him and sat down on his bed, grimacing as he finally forced himself to loosen his grip on his hand. It was stained red and black with blood and magicka, and two large holes had managed to form in his palm where his pointer and middle finger had managed to dig into it. He forced himself to relax, taking in several deep breaths and closing his eyes. He tucked his wounded hand underneath his arm, hoping his sleeve would absorb some of the blood, and walked into the bathroom, shuffling through a medicine cabinet in search for a bandage. He focused on wrapping his hand in a white bondage, examining it as black and red seeped through it, before grabbing a masking potion and pouring the magical substance over his hand. The bandage slowly seemed to disappear, his hand looking like it had never been damaged in the first place.

"You're a Conjurer Cyrus," he told himself as he examined his hand in an effort to comfort himself.

"And a poor one at that." Cyrus flinched as a deep, roughly accented voice spoke behind him, and twisting around he saw Lord Shadow, Heat's dragon who could honestly say his bite was worse than his bark.

"Bold words for such a tiny dragon." The Professor hissed scathingly as he made his way back into his room. It was a mystery to everyone who knew of the pair's shaky and rather hateful relationship. Some said it was because of Cyrus's rumored venturing into the Dragon Haven when he was a much younger, much stronger wizard that he developed a distaste for the beings, not at all Lord Shadow's fault. Others thought Lord Shadow was simply being the disdainful mutt-dragon he was, not caring for anyone besides his lovely owner. Then there were a few, including Malistaire before madness ravaged his mind, who thought they were simply guardians to one another, sharing a bond through Heat rather than each other.

Lord Shadow said nothing in reply, simply gliding over to the side as Cyrus made his way to the bed, working his fingers in an attempt to loosen the damaged muscle. "You know Cyrus," Lord Shadow commented a long while later. "I never took you as a Necro."

"I'm not," The professor muttered, settling down in a chair and staring at a fire he had promptly started by use of his limited Pyromancy knowledge.

"I never took you as a liar as well." Lord Shadow flew over to him, perching himself on his shoulder. "Cerulean is the color of Myth magicka. Black is for Death. So unless you've been tainted, altered, or have had a recent magic-blood transfusion, you're lying."

"I'm a Conjurer," Cyrus muttered through gritted teeth, shrugging the small black and purple dragon off his shoulder. Lord Shadow simply curled his slender body around the mans neck, hissing in his ear.

"Conjurers are naturally gifted at concealing their emotions. This is true even in the dragons. Of all the Archen, none knew better than a Con how to hold their tongue. But then again, you aren't a natural Conjurer now are you?" Cyrus swung a fisted hand at the dragon's small head, but all he received were a few small white scratches on his knuckles as they met with the dragons sharp spines. Lord Shadow muttered something in his native tongue, something about poor aim, before settling down comfortably on the arm of the chair. He stared at Cyrus through dangerous ice colored eyes. "When were you planning on telling Heat this?"

"I wasn't." Cyrus bit his lip and focused his gaze on the fire, forcing himself to ignore the small nuisance beside him.

"So you keep secrets too? Shame. Heat's eyes see more than just storms you know. They see light in the darkest caves. They see needles in haystacks. They see right through a person's soul. So when you do break - and the next time she _will_ be with you - and you begin bleeding the blood of a Necro, what will she think of you?"

"I'll hide it." The reply was an immature one, Cyrus knew, the words sounding as naive as a childs in his ears. Lord Shadow's lips pulled back in the beginnings of a snarl.

"Just like a true Con, right?" The small dragon shook his head and snorted. "A true Con is also honest, which you're obviously not. So tell me…" Lord Shadow stood on the chair of the arm and stretched, his long, yellowed claws digging into the fabric and acting as if it were just another idle conversation. "Why does a wizard as powerful as you feel the need to lie about their magic-blood? Are you ashamed, Cyrus? Or is there some deep-rooted hatred of Necromancy?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Cyrus scoffed sheepishly, avoiding the icy gaze of the small dragon. "No magic is evil, and the dearest people in my life just so happen to be Necromancers."

"Yes, your brother, your daughter and you, obviously, since you're _so_ proud of your true magic." The dragon curled back up on the arm of the chair, staring into the flickering fire with half-closed eyes, as if chasing some distant memory he could never reach. He shook his head clear of the thoughts, then continued. "Your brother abandoned you, consumed by an evil unknown to anyone, your daughter - may the Dragon Titans bless her - is a Necromancer for unknown purposes, and you, my friend, are a liar." Cyrus's patience snapped, and suddenly he turned to glare at the despicable being in front of him.

"Quit barking and bite me already." He hissed quietly, daring the dragon to respond. Lord Shadow's lips curled back into a snarl, a loud, menacing growl resounding from the back of his throat.

"That can be arranged." The two glared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, unable to hold the piercing gaze of Heat's dragon, whose eyes were almost as dangerous as her own, Cyrus turned away and stood from his chair. Lord Shadow whisked his tail back and forth, a look of snide contentment on his face as the argument came to a close. "I didn't really come here to question your personal life and discover your deepest secrets you know. I came to inform you that Ambrose needs to see you. When you had your little breakdown, you shut your mind off and he couldn't send for you."

"Terrific." Cyrus muttered, making his way to the bedroom door. Lord Shadow cocked his head curiously, staring after him with an incomprehensible glint in his eyes. As the Conjurer opened the door, he glanced back over his shoulder. "I know that look; a question?"

"Why are you a Con if you're truly a Necro?" At this, an almost somber look entered Cyrus's dark blue gaze, and without responding he walked out into the hallway. Lord Shadow stared after the man curiously, not at all enjoying the fact his question would go unanswered. The dragon had a way of getting what he wanted though. He would get the answers he desired. Lord Shadow sniffed, then turned away from the fleeing man.

Cyrus continued his way silently down the street, his yellow and navy blue robes billowing behind him in an almost dramatic effect as he rushed over to Ambrose's house. He really didn't want to go to the old man, not so soon after the meeting and especially not after an argument with Heat's ever-so-precious dragon. What could Merle have possibly wanted with him anyways? It was late, the stars glistening beside a golden moon, and Cyrus would have guessed that after all the excitement of the day the old man would have been fast asleep. Ambrose was a man of surprises, as was this night.

Cyrus paused outside the gate that lead to the Shopping District, feeling the fabric of his robe and working the fingers of his damaged hand. He was still angered at the accusations thrown at him by the mutt-dragon Lord Shadow and he was still flustered by his lack of emotional control. He took in a deep breath, biting his tongue in the process. If Ambrose was to confront him about Malistaire, he was almost certain his barrier would completely fall apart, and in front of such a powerful man that was not acceptable. A few students in red Pyromancy robes whisked past him, flashing him pink slips of paper to tell him they were allowed to stay out past curfew. On any other night, Cyrus would have gladly grabbed the collar of a student's robes and haul them into Ambrose's office, happily confining them to their dorm for a few days if they were out past curfew without reason, but even as the short Novice girl scurried past him without a slip or a note he simply watched her pass. He simply couldn't care less.

Finally, after a few minutes of examining his surroundings and saying curt greetings to his students, he made his way to Ambrose's door and went inside. Typical of Ambrose, the room was littered with scrolls, books, and loose pieces of parchment; a door was completely blocked on one side by the piles of mismatched articles. Cyrus stopped half-way across the room, eyeing Ambrose as the old man wrote something at his desk, apparently oblivious to his being there. Cyrus knew better than to simply slip out of the room however. He was too stubborn to, too proud, and even if he had a sense of cowardice it was impossible to duck away now. Ambrose was one of the most adept magical users in the Spiral's known history; he would have sensed Cyrus was standing just a few feet away. The Conjurer frowned and sat himself on the chair in front of the desk, waiting patiently for the Headmaster to complete whatever it was he was doing.

"Greetings Cyrus," Ambrose muttered without looking up, his voice laced heavily with a venom that had gone unheard for centuries. Cyrus felt himself cringe. He knew of Ambrose's past, more than the other professors even, but he had never experienced the bitter side of Ambrose before, and he was afraid he would have to now. The bearded man sighed and let his pen plop onto the desk. "I apologize for acting this way. I've'nt felt so stressed about a single person since..._her_."

"Understandable," Cyrus muttered quietly. 'Her' was the Krokotopian queen Eclipse No-Light, a benevolent ruler to her people, but a cruel one to outsiders. She was by-all-means Ambrose's first student being the first one he truly taught. However, he had also lied and deceived her, calling her a Pyromancer rather than a Necromancer, telling her she was to be worshiped by her peers when she was to be shunned, kicked, and quite possibly killed. Later he would abandon her without a single farewell, never to see her again. To this day the old man has yet to forgive himself. The simple utterance of her name was enough to send him in a fit of depression and anger, so Cyrus held his tongue. It was a scary thought really. While Eclipse reigned long before Cyrus had been birthed, he was well aware of the grouch Ambrose was at the time, how troubled he was because of the Queen, and hearing Ambrose admit his fears of Malistaire were very similar to that of Eclipse sent shivers down the Conjurers spine.

"Anyways, you aren't here for me. You're here for this." Suddenly Ambrose held out a sealed, unmarked envelope, his aquamarine eyes glinting dangerously. "Diego brought it to me. It's from your brother."

* * *

Lord Shadow, after he was sure Cyrus had fully left the house, made his way over to Heat's room, where he usually resided when he was left alone. He was assured Heat wouldn't return until early the next morning, and Cyrus never dabbled around in his affairs, giving him the peace and quiet he needed to carry out the task that was about to take place. He curled up promptly on his pillow and closed his eyes. He focused his Dragonblade power -traditionally known as _Stem_, the Voice - in the center of his chest. A gentle, mesmerizing golden light suddenly encased the black and purple dragon, no brighter than a candlelight yet still one of the most powerful magics in the Spiral. _Powerful_, Lord Shadow reflected, _but unknown to many_. Here the dragon felt himself drift not into sleep, but into a whole new realm.

When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the safe confines of Heat's dark room, but in the center of a grassy field. The Dragon Haven was all but lost on the physical world a great many years ago, lost before even Eclipse No-Light had become the rightful ruler of Krokotopia over a thousand years ago. Hills of emerald green grass rolled over the landscape, kept at a short length with not one dry patch to be seen, softer than anything found in the known Spiral. Trees - as ancient as the world they resided in - dotted the place, towering higher than even the great Bartleby himself, with large, twisting mahogany-red branches and lime green leaves that would never wither away. A single river, a pristine line of cerulean blue, cut through the middle of the landscape, going as far as the eye could see in a never-ending ripple of energy. The Dragon Haven - a heaven of sorts to every dragon Titan or not - was a place that had only ever known peace and prosperity.

As Lord Shadow glided across the gentle breeze towards his true destination, he reflected on just what the Dragon Haven was. Yes, it was a sort of heaven to the dragons, but not in the simplest sense that some humans - specifically from Earth - would put it. It wasn't a 'good got to stay' and 'bad went to hell' sort of thing. There was a complex system set in place, arranged in such a way that dragons would be judged and sentenced. The High-Archen - six of the oldest dragons ever to walk the known universe - were the judges and guardians of this realm. When a dragon passed on or reached a pre-determined age, their spirits would leave their bodies and go to the Haven to be tried. If they were wise beings - honorable or malicious alike - they were permitted to stay in the Haven as Guardians to those still-living, much younger dragons. If they were found too immature and un-ripened, they were sent back to the world which they came from in order to obtain more knowledge and experience new things. Those believed to be wrought of pure evil were sentenced to live with the Serpents - whom were shunned by mortals before the Spiral had even been created - in the dark forests that bordered their land. The ones who were altogether undetermined, even after multiple tests, were either sent back to the world they came from as a ghost-like creature never to return, or they were destroyed altogether despite the good things they may have done. Those who completed their part were reincarnated into a another dragon with different physical features but the same mind and, sometimes, the same memories.

Complicated, Lord Shadow decided as he flew over the lands, was an understatement. Unlike the heaven and hell which Earthen humans often believed in, where good resided in one and bad in the other, the Dragon Haven was a mix. As long as someone was thought wise, they were to stay. Whether they saved thousands or killed millions played no part here. And to add onto the great many complications, the Archen's judgements were very abstract. If they could sense wisdom in the heart of a naive mind or see the goodness in an evil one's thoughts, Lord Shadow wasn't certain.

Finally, Lord Shadow reached his destination. Six great trees, each closely resembling the School trees found in Ravenwood, circled around a brown stone pentagon with a spiral in it's center. He slowly lowered to the ground, and as his feet touched the center of the pentagon a golden light not unlike the one Lord Shadow emitted lit up the spiral, slowly twisting and turning until it reached the gargantuan trees. When the lights struck, the trunks of the trees slowly untwisted themselves, revealing a portal-like white light in their centers. As soon as the golden light vanished, six dragons simultaneously sprung out from the portals, bigger and stronger than any dragon found in the physical universe.

Each one bore markings and patterns that represented six of the seven schools, the only one not present being Balance, the newest school of Magic created after the Titans reined. Lord Shadow had a knack for understanding abstract ideas and judgements, but he could never fully understand the Archens. The Elemental Archens - Talik, Frase, and Jilak - were the oldest dragons in the Haven and by-all-means the founders of the mystical place, and yet the Spiritual Archens - Elis, Frendel, and Harken - were the self-proclaimed rulers of the land. Their decision was the ultimate one. Talik, the Dragon of Fire and the oldest of them all, was a true Titan. The others were not, and yet he was the one who was hardly acknowledged. Lord Shadow thought it was out of fear, or a failed acknowledgement that the Titan was the rightful ruler of the land, but he wasn't sure of the exact reasoning behind their obvious hate.

"Lord Shadow," Elis, the Dragon of Life and elected leader of the Haven, greeted the mutt-dragon in front of her with a patient, almost too relaxed tone. Her lime green scales and intricate gold vine patterns gave her a regal, majestic look, and while she was nice to look at and her calm demeanor was an asset to the dragons of the Haven, Lord Shadow never her saw her fit to lead. She was too much of a pacifist and, as the youngest of the Archen, ultimately more naive than the others. Beside her, Frendel's brow furrowed, and his tail whisked menacingly.

"Odd for such a young, live dragon to call upon us." He grunted. Unlike Elis - who was practically the embodiment of Theurgist stereotype - Frendel was anything but. While his physical actions may have presented a sense of malice and evil - Necromatic energy practically seeping from his ebony scales and his always-menacing crimson glare tearing right through the soul of anyone - in realty he was a calm dragon, and while malicious to some degree he had a great abundance of patience and understanding, always seeing both sides of the coin. He was second in command. Questionable to say the least, but no where near as challenged as Elis was. Frendel let out a snort. "What is so dire that we be called upon this late in Spirals days?"

"War, my guardian." At this, each dragon exchanged dubious glances, like they were being fooled, then turned to regard Frendel, who was by all means the dragon form of Aries, the Earthen god of war. The Dragon of Death said nothing however, only closing his eyes and waiting for someone else to speak, showing no signs that he would answer their unasked question. Finally, Frase turned her white scaled head to address the small dragon, her icicle-like horns glinting in the sun.

"War has not been declared since the rule of Eclipse," she snapped. _Crabbier than usual_, Lord Shadow thought with an amused glint in his eyes. _Poor old thing wants some blood in her life._ "Just what type of battle do you foresee - or bloody think I should say - will take place?"

"You know which one." Harken - Dragon if Myth and third in command - let out a low grunt but did not respond, smooth yellow scales and navy blue tribal markings flashing a brilliant light every so often. It was Harken, the Con of the Olden Days, that gave Lord Shadow the impression that all Conjurers knew how to hold their tongue. None knew better than a Con. None knew better than the Last Dragon of Myth. Lord Shadow stared up at him, almost begging the incredible dragon to speak his mind, but Harken wouldn't utter a word.

"Malistaire is a troubled soul," Talik commented truthfully, but his golden eyes blazed with disbelief. "But he does not have the manpower or energy to wage war. Frendel would not allow it."

"But there are some things I cannot reach out to," Frendel commented rather bluntly, baring his razor sharp teeth in the direction of the Titan. Talik gave no response, simply bowed his head in minor acceptance. Perhaps if Lord Shadow were much younger, he would have seen Frendel's beginning snarl as an active threat, but he and the Archens knew this was how he was, acting out though it was best to heed his words for what they were, not his actions. Here he was aggressive, but his words dismissed fear and simplicity.

"So will there be war?" Frase demanded impatiently, radiating a freezing energy from her body. Atypical of a Thaumaturge, Frase was aggressive, demanding, and blood-thirsty. She was a bloody good leader on the battlefield though, and above all the Archens Lord Shadow himself personally feared her more than the others. She was the military head of the Haven, powerful enough to kill all the Archens if need be with just enough support to get away with it. Elis glanced between the Necro and Thaugy Archens, autumn colored eyes glinting with apprehension.

"That is not our decision," Jilak snapped. The Dragon of Storm was another impatient being, but far less blood-thirsty than his kin. Yellow eyes glinted dangerously, and an electrical current surged through his scales. The other Archen's said nothing, allowing the third oldest dragon of the Haven to continue. He was the only other Archen aside from Elis to decide against becoming a warrior. He was purely an advisor, a guardian, something Lord Shadow never fully understood though it was likely due to his mind's pollution of present-day stereotypes. Jilak snorted before he continued. "The Haven was meant for dragons alone. We do not dabble in the affairs of humans or anthros alike. Their war is not our war. Our war is not theirs."

"And if it does become the affair of our kind?" Lord Shadow snapped, growing impatient with the arguing circle of Archens. Elis narrowed her eyes at the mutt-dragon.

"Who's to say it will?"

"If Malistaire journeys to Dragonspyre and awakens the Titan who resides there, then it _will_ be our war. The Sleeping Titan will call upon your souls and drag you back to the Spiral to wage war against all humans!" The Archen's exchanged glances with each other again, all except Talik, who bowed his head. After a long silence, one that gave Lord Shadow the impression they were speaking telepathically, Elis flapped her wings decisively.

"This is concerning, and despite the unlikelihood of it all we must consider it," she nodded to Lord Shadow, a small smile curling the corners of her mouth. "Thank you, Lord Shadow, for bringing us this news and considering it. We will take our leave now." One by one the Archens returned to the portal they came, spiraling in the air before diving in. The only two who hesitated were Jilak and Harken. The Last Dragon of Myth weaved around closer to Jilak, muttering something in his ear before he too returned to his portal. Jilak snorted, and with a flick of his tail his portal closed. Lord Shadow, confused by his lingering, looked at him quizzically.

"Harken, the wise old soul, wanted me to ask you a question." Jilak laid his long, slender body on the ground, jerking his head for Lord Shadow to come closer. "Since I am your Guardian, he claims I should ask them for him."

"Since when were you the puppet of another?" The smaller dragon challenged, wings stretching out as he took flight to meet his ancestor eye to eye.

"I made myself the puppet. As a counselor and adviser, it is my duty to help those I deem above me. He might bite his own tongue off, but Harken is a leader in my eyes." Lord Shadow nodded in understanding, then waited for Jilak to continue. The Dragon of Storm let out a huff, clouds of stormy smoke billowing out of his mouth and nostrils. "He believes you are right that there will be danger in the Spiral, one caused by Malistaire, but not in a war."

"No war?" Lord Shadow was a hundred year old dragon, young by most standards, and while he was wise and cunning he had much to learn. Jilak always found his pupil an amusing one because of this, and he shook his head to stop himself from laughing outright.

"War by one man is not what Malistaire seeks. It is his wife, his family, he wishes to call upon. As a Necro, he believes himself capable. He came across forbidden scrolls in the catacombs of the First School of Death, filled him with images of truth and lie. A darker being corrupted him, and now he thinks himself invincible. He thinks he can complete his goal."

"Through use of the Sleeping Titan?" Lord Shadow inquired, ice blue eyes glinting with interest and curiosity. To Jilak, he was like a cub all over again.

"Harken seems to think so."

"What does he wish to ask?" Jilak frowned, his brow furrowing as he looked up at the two suns of the Haven. Another surge of electricity coursed through his body, blue and white sparks jumping off his dark violet scales.

"He watches the Drakes with great interest. Finds them interesting. Cyrus a Necro so determined to be a Con, Malistaire so determined to bring his love back, Sylvia - now passed - so determined to prove that Death has Life in it as well. Even the two children interest him greatly. The legend who became a Necro and the broken one who found a home." Suddenly Lord Shadow knew just what Harken wanted to know, the whole reason why Lord Shadow could never leave Cyrus alone. "You know better of the non-Con than anyone. He wants to know what you know."

"He's bitter, elusive, secretive, and too stubborn to accept the facts no matter how tainted they are." Lord Shadow sighed, landing on one of the great dragon's wings. "Malistaire's leaving affected him greatly. His magic-blood was seeping through his hands, and his fingers dug deep into his skin. He admitted he was a Necro, but not the reason why he lies."

"So you think he will join his brother?" Jilak inquired. While he in particular could care less for any human, he was a Guardian of not only the Haven, but the Spiral as well. It was his duty, his calling. If the non-Con were to join with his brother, there would be no stopping the powerful duo. Untapped magical power, both Jilak and Lord Shadow knew, was the most dangerous kind. To his mingled relief and surprise, Lord Shadow shook his head.

"His connection with Malistaire is long and deep, but unlike his twin, his sense of right and wrong is still in tact. Duty is as precious to him as it is to you." Jilak nodded.

"Then let us hope that Malistaire shall be stopped before the Spiral lies in ruins, and may the true darkness that corrupted him be stopped." As Jilak stood, Lord Shadow flew off his shoulder and watched as the massive dragon spiraled into the air, a powerful surge of lightning left in his wake. Lord Shadow's eyes glinted with mingled awe and confusion, then turned on his heel and left the Archen's calling place. He may have made the Archens think, but was that enough?

* * *

Cyrus slumped onto his bed, his back against the headboard as he slowly tore open the envelope concealing his brother's letter. Perhaps if the night weren't so cruel to him, he would have been elated to know his brother was alive and well, attempting to communicate with the brother he abandoned, but with how the events of the night that played out, he dreaded the letter. Cyrus stared at the folded parchment blankly for a long while before slowly, ever so slowly, he opened it to find the slanted handwriting of Malistaire, so pristine yet with an almost sinister look to it.

_My Brother,_

_I know that with my leaving and beloved Sylvia's death, you must be struggling to cope with only your daughter - whom I pray is well - to comfort you. My most sincerest apologies go to you Cyrus, for you are not only my brother but a dear friend. Our family is small, broken, and damaged, but you and I always remained close. I am writing to you so that you may know that I am as well as I ever was, and to tell you that you should not worry about me. I am one of the few who know your secret. It would be a shame should that secret be released too soon and without you wanting it to be so._

_However, that is only part of why I am sending you this letter. I have a plan on how to bring my lovely Sylvia back, a secret only I know that has the power to revive her, not simply reanimate her into a soulless being. Can you imagine it? Seeing her smiling face, hearing her infectious laugh, watching her as she strolls through Ravenwood, helping all students should they need it? It's impossible for me to imagine life without her. It's impossible for me to live without her, knowing I will never again see her beautiful face. I need her back, Cyrus. I want to live again._

_I'm asking you to please help me on my journey. I cannot do this on my own. I need you by my side, to assure me that I can fulfill this quest, that Sylvia will eventually be mine again to hold in my arms. You are my dear brother, and I love you deeply. I would hate to think of anything happening to you. However, refuse my offer and stay on Ambrose's side, know that my precious Sylvia is more important to me than you are. I will no longer consider you my brother, but as my enemy. I could never consider you an obstacle - you're too powerful and cunning to be just that - but I will be forced to put an end to you._

_I ask you to please take considerable thought in my offer. You could never love Sylvia as much as I do and I know you would never do the things I'm willing to do in her name. Perhaps, when she has been resurrected back to the perfection she was, you and I can continue to make the Spiral a better place. Under our rule - with Sylvia as my queen and you as my adviser - we can re-make the Spiral into a paradise. I know how much you wish to rebuild our home Dragonspyre. If you join me, we can do just that. Return all the life that once thrived there. Return all the life that ever resided in the Spiral._

_My dearest brother, please consider this with all your heart and mind. I await your response._

_Your friend and brother,_

_Malistaire Drake_

Cyrus would read the letter several times, wondering and attempting to decide if this truly was Malistaire. Wanting to bring back Sylvia, the longing for her, the way he wrote those words, was most definitely his brother. His kindness and desperation towards Cyrus, his brother whom has gone through much with him, was true. But making the Spiral a paradise? Rebuilding Dragonspyre? Ruling all that was known in that realm? These were not Malistaire's aspirations. He was not a power-hungry man and cared too little for the Spiral to do much for it. Perhaps, should the twins be switched in that Cyrus was the one gone rogue, it would be plausible, but not Malistaire. The Necromancer was a simple man, the Conjurer was anything but.

The invitation was tempting, almost too tempting for Cyrus to comprehend fully. He wished to be with his brother again, to protect him like he always had, and it was true he longed even more so to rebuild Dragonspyre, his home. But as Cyrus thought, he knew that the Malistaire he loved as a brother had gone, replaced by a dark man with a mind filled with hopeless lies. Cyrus was the dreamer, Malistaire was not, so all the Conjurer could think was that Malistaire had simply gone mad. Insane even.

Besides, Cyrus could not leave his daughter as Malistaire did his own child. Unlike Alex - hardened by the tortured life of abandonment - Heat would surely break and fall apart. Cyrus could never do that to her. He couldn't leave his family - now even smaller and more broken than ever before - behind. After many hours of lying there, contemplating the letter and which road he should take, the hand of fate finally lifted off from his bleeding heart. He grabbed his pen, a blank piece of parchment, and continued on to respond to his brother.

_Dearest Brother,_

_I am incredibly and honestly relieved that you are well, my dear friend. I too long to see Sylvia again as she was a friend to us all, and while I will always wish and aspire to bring back the greatness of Dragonspyre, I'm afraid I cannot accept your offer. Our family is small and broken. Our daughters are in pain. And with you gone, only I can watch over them. I love you as much as any brother possibly could, but I will not do to my daughter and your daughter what our parents did to us. I have a duty to uphold…._

As he continued to write his letter to his brother, he would remain oblivious to the fact that Lord Shadow was watching him from the doorway. A small smile curled the ends of the dragon's mouth, and despite all the hate he had for the non-Con, he was glad that Cyrus would keep sane for Heat and the Spiral's sake. You're a good man Cyrus Drake. He kept the thought private, but then proceeded to speak to him telepathically:

"Stay strong, man who holds his tongue. There are havens even in the darkest of places."

Cyrus glanced up at the dragon, a flicker of a memory in his eyes, and as the two locked gazes, they knew a war wouldn't rage, and trusted fate to play its hand. Wherever there was shadow, there had to be light.


End file.
